Danger Nights
by angelsintophats
Summary: Written for a prompt speculating upon what it would be like if Mycroft and John's "danger night" conversation had been alluding to a suicidal Sherlock. "The five times that John watched over Sherlock/the one time Sherlock did likewise". Spoilers for TRF.


The Five Times that John Watched Over Sherlock and the One Time Sherlock Did Likewise

(Danger Nights)

Certain words in the English language, John realizes, have certain connotations. For example, some words can fill you with a warm, abundant elation, and some with crushing despair; some combinations of words, turns of phrases, can turn one into a roar of fire or a heap of anxiety.

Danger night. Those two words in succession used to mean nothing to John Watson, not before he had moved in with Sherlock Holmes and against all odds had become his friend.

Some words can fill you with fear.

_Danger night._ Those are the two words which he has come to fear most of all.

* * *

><p>001:<p>

Nothing seems different about Sherlock; not to John, anyway. However, at this point in their relationship (early), there isn't a great amount to be gathered from that.

John walks into the flat after a shift from the clinic to see Sherlock Holmes in the kitchen, tinkering with his microscope, silent as the grave if not for the faint rustling of clothing.

"You left your coat on?"

"I'm going out soon, just making some final adjustments."

John shrugs off his own jacket and sits himself on the couch. "Out? What's open at this time of night, anyway?"

Sherlock ignores him, not bothering to utter a reply; this is something which John would realize soon enough (later) as the initial signal, because when someone who will outlive God trying to have the last word refuses to speak, something has gone amiss.

But for now (early), John is unperturbed. He shrugs at his flatmate's silence and turns on the telly.

In this moment, he reflects about his life with the detective up to this point, and comes to the conclusion that it's been pleasant enough; in one month, Sherlock has been incredibly steadfast in his routine, and seems to John to be nothing out of the ordinary, save for his incredible intellect.

Then, he hears movement from the kitchen. Sherlock stands up, walks into the room, and stops beside John's sitting figure.

"Anything good?" He motions to the television. (Later), John would take hints from the quiet, subdued manner in which Sherlock speaks. (The First Time), these things mean nothing.

John shakes his head, flipping channels, "Nah, not unless you like soaps or infomercials for vacuum cleaners." Sherlock nods, and a brief silence drifts between them. "You leaving, then?" John asks finally, and Sherlock seems distracted, jolted from his thoughts. He nods, and speaks with a tone of certain finality.

"Yes, I think I will," He says, and then finishes after a brief pause, awkwardly, as if the words are strange on his tongue, "Goodbye, John."

And John flicks the channel one more time.

"'Bye, Sherlock."

The detective closes the door behind him.

* * *

><p>"Hello?"<p>

"Where is he?"

John is woken up in the middle of the night by a phonecall from an unrecognized number, a very anxious sounding individual on the other line.

"Where is he?" The stranger repeats the question fervently, and John is still not quite awake.

"Sorry, mate, I think you have the wrong num - "

"John Hamish Watson, late army doctor for the British infantry, currently residing at 221B Baker Street with the psychosomatic limp, trust issues in the second bedroom on the right, _where_ in God's name is Sherlock Holmes?"

John gaped stupidly at the unseen correspondent.

"Who the hell is this?"

An exasperated sigh.

"The car will be at your door in sixty seconds. I suggest you get in it."

This is how John Watson meets Mycroft Holmes.

"You must never, _ever_ let him go unattended on nights like these, John."

"Nights like what?" Mycroft is a tired looking man with dark bruises underneath his eyes that show nothing if not the story of one thousand sleepless nights looking after one too many people that should be able to, at this point, fend for themselves.

The man sighs, "Danger nights, I've come to call them. I suppose that you wouldn't know of his history, you barely knew each other forty-five seconds before deciding to share a flat…"

The car speeds through the London streets, matching the velocity at which John's mind is currently working.

"What are you talking about, what history?" Mycroft sighs again, a worried habit, and he grabs John's phone to put his number into it.

"To be blunt, Doctor Watson, my brother has never been particularly…happy, as a person. With talent, with supreme intelligence such as he has, invariably comes a rather dangerous imbalance."

And suddenly, everything in John's mind makes sense, and his voice drops to a horrified murmur.

"He's going to kill himself."

* * *

><p>The two of them find Sherlock in the dead of night on the top of St. Bart's, leaning over the edge. However, it's not any look of despair that John finds in his face; rather, there's hardly a trace of any feeling at all, save for curiosity, as if he's asking himself,<p>

_What's there on the other side?_

Sherlock prides himself on his intelligence and knows full well that there's nothing. Despite this, though, he can't help but hope to be proven wrong, just once, because the weight of the truth on his shoulders is enough to make his bones creak as he sways.

His gaze downward stays steady, calculated. On the roof of the building, Sherlock addresses Mycroft as he and John come up behind him.

"I suppose that tonight isn't the night either," He says, and Mycroft laughs without any humor. John is left to wonder how many times this must have happened for them to become so casual.

"No, Sherlock, I've told you; not tonight, or any other."

Sherlock exhales evenly, counting the seconds. "Hello, John."

John starts, as if awakened by a dream. "Er – Hello, Sherlock." Sherlock turns from the ledge of the roof and walks towards them wearing a polite smile.

"I hope you don't take it personally, but I hadn't hoped to see you again quite this soon."

And that's when John sees it, and it's all lucid in Sherlock's eyes; the pain of all of his knowledge, the pain of alienation, of loss, of _boredom_.

John nearly has to kick himself to respond in a timely manner. "No – ah – no offense taken."

* * *

><p>Once back at the flat, Sherlock sits down and turns on the telly with a vacant expression, something that John has never seen him do.<p>

The doctor sits next to him. Sherlock makes no motion to indicate that he notices, and soon, John receives a text message from Mycroft.

_Talk to him._

_- MH_

And what is he supposed to do? Sherlock is a man that he barely knows, just recently returned from a suicide attempt; the situation is easily the epitome is uncomfortable.

As if Mycroft can hear the cogs in John's mind turning, another text comes not fifteen seconds after the first.

_The War._

_- MH_

John looks from the text to Sherlock, statue-like next to him, and unexpectedly, his mouth begins to spill things without his consent; words and means of expression that he didn't even know he had.

"I've thought of it before, too, you know." That's how it starts – quiet, shy. Sherlock turns his head towards him, skeptical.

John keeps talking. He finds soon that he cannot stop.

And the best part is, Sherlock listens; he listens without expression to all of John's experiences, all of the things that he's seen, the things that he's had to do, the things that until this moment have been unspeakable. John talks fondly of the good times, the bonds that he's formed. Alternatively, he feels the room impossibly darken when reliving the gore and the fighting and the utter disappointment in his fellow human beings.

The war, Mycroft had said: a loaded topic, without pun intended.

John goes on to explain everything afterwards, as well; how he got shot, how he can't seem to shake a limp that doesn't exist, and how it's very seldom that he doesn't feel alone in a crowd full of people. He explains how he hates running into old army buddies because he doesn't want to be reminded of the old days and how he's haunted constantly.

Most importantly, however, he tells Sherlock how he's the only one that he's ever told and at this point in his life, the only one he ever _will_ tell.

And Sherlock listens. He doesn't grimace when John tells the ghost stories, and he doesn't laugh at what the army doctor feels is nothing but sheer stupidity.

This is how it starts, with frantic words and stoic expressions, and it ends with Sherlock's head in John's lap, counting the seconds until dawn.

The television plays unwatched. No tears are shed, and neither is uncomfortable. Rather, they are arguably more comfortable than they have ever been, finally finding another person with whom to share their loneliness.

Loneliness: while it is the drive for so many disdainful things, it can sometimes be the spark for something beautiful, too. Simple, yes, but incredibly beautiful.

The silence is only broken when what feels like hours later, Sherlock says, "Perhaps we should invest in a new vacuum cleaner."

John laughs and Sherlock doesn't have to struggle to smile, his haggard face regaining some more semblance of healthy color judging by what John can see by the pale light.

The first danger night ends in success.

* * *

><p>002:<p>

Six months later, John walks into 221B after a week-long out of town conference, and Sherlock Holmes is nowhere to be found.

_Welcome back, John._

_- MH_

John rolls his eyes, already exasperated with the older Holmes brother who seems to have a certain penchant for stalking, although Mycroft likes to call it something along the lines of "keeping watch over the nest".

_You know, it probably wouldn't hurt to be a little less creepy even some of the time._

_- JW_

_Even so. Take about twenty paces to your left, and you'll find my brother in the middle of a very mal-intentioned relapse, one that I would wager that he needs your help with_

_- MH_

_That is, if he wants to avoid death._

_- MH_

John's heart stutters and he strains his ears to listen, although he can hear nothing at all, let alone anything out of the ordinary.

Another text.

_Which, given past events, he doesn't. Although I'm sure you would have something to say about that._

_- MH_

John sets his jaw and replies swiftly before throwing his phone onto the couch and making his way to Sherlock's room.

_I'll get it taken care of._

_- JW_

"Sherlock," He says sternly as he walks into the detective's room, "What in God's name do you think you're doing?"

Sherlock is sprawled across his bed which is littered in various narcotics; his left arm is peppered with needle marks, and his pupils are dilated to the point of obstructing the irises completely.

"Bored," He rasps flatly, and the two have just so recently passed the point which would make it acceptable for John to get angry at this, which he most certainly does.

"You stupid bloody twat," He says as he props Sherlock up with his own body and yells for Mrs. Hudson to hail a cab, "You know, you're probably the most intelligent person I know, Sherlock, but I've got to say, you're also the dumbest."

"Another danger night," He can hear their landlady mutter softly as they make their way to the door, "And he was doing so well, too."

"That was certainly my impression."

A grimace as the cab pulls up to Baker Street, "Welcome home, dear."

* * *

><p>John hates hospitals. Not in every sense, of course, as he does technically work in one; rather, he hates hospitals in the traditional sense.<p>

The things he abhors more than anything else is the waiting room. The waiting room is constantly filled with nervous paces and worried faces, perpetually bracing themselves for bad news. This is where John finds his troubles: he's had enough bad news to last a lifetime, and if his flatmate, his _friend _were to kick the bucket and he couldn't have prevented it because he was on some bloody business trip…

A man in scrubs steps through the door and approaches John, his expression weary.

"Mr. Watson, your friend is going to be fine."

A breath exhaled that he wasn't aware of holding, "Really?"

A nod. Relief. "Yes. However, you may want to get some food in his system; we had to pump everything out, and in doing so, we noticed that it seems like he hasn't even eaten for days. That plus the combination of drugs could have very well - "

But John doesn't need to hear it, not even when it's hypothetical, "Yes, thank you. Thank you very much."

A sympathetic turn of the lips. Papers. Papers?

"A release form and you two should be all set."

John sighs. Welcome home indeed.

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes has the uncanny ability – the <em>infuriating<em> ability – to play almost everything and anything off as utterly insignificant, even when (especially when) it is exactly the opposite.

So, when John meets his flatmate in the lobby of the hospital and asks him something along the lines of what the bloody hell they were going to do now, Sherlock replies as follows:

A shrug; nonchalant.

"Well," He says, "I'm not dead. Let's have dinner."

And amazingly, John doesn't smack him once the entire evening.

They sit down at their usual place, next to the window, near the front of the restaurant. Sherlock says nothing of importance although he eats a meal this time, without John having to beg, and that's a large enough win to give the good doctor at least a little encouragement.

John picks at his food distractedly, making an attempt at keeping casual. Funny how things work.

"So," He says, after Sherlock finishes telling him of an interesting case he'd solved in the sixteen hours immediately following John's leave one week prior, "Are we going to talk about it at all?"

Sherlock almost looks confused as he replies through a mouthful of pizza, "Talk about what?" John throws him a less-than-friendly glance.

"Sherlock, you literally just tried to kill yourself. Again. Second time since I've moved in, remember? That's a bit not good."

The detective looks down, feigns apathy, although John can see the vulnerability beneath the façade.

"Yes, that," He says, and John wonders quietly in his own head when his friend had found time to master the art of casualty, "No need for you to worry about it."

John scoffs loudly and drops his fork on his plate, creating a clatter that draws the eyes of several nearby diners.

"Not a big - " He starts loudly, although thinks better of it and lowers his voice, leaning in, "Not a big deal, Sherlock?"

"Logically, my existence shouldn't be of much consequence to you."

John is fuming at this point, his hands balled into fists dangerously on top of the table. Sherlock simply stares back at him blankly.

"You," John says, "Are bloody…" He shuts his eyes and sighs in an attempt to calm himself down. He begins again, even quieter than before, "You are a ridiculous person."

John doesn't say any more. He doesn't say that all logic can be damned, because since they've met nothing has been logical but perhaps John rather likes that and would enjoy keeping it that way, thanks; he doesn't say that it's only been a short amount of time, sure, but he feels like he's known Sherlock his whole life, can feel his presence in almost all of his memories; he doesn't say that just the thought of his best friend taking his own life is enough to make his insides turn in on themselves and to make his eyes water.

He doesn't say anything. He merely picks up his fork once more and keeps his eyes trained on his food as after a while, Sherlock deems it acceptable to continue to tell him of the case, of the antics of the Yard, and to deduce the events of John's week.

He's right about everything, as always.

* * *

><p>At home, Sherlock doesn't even voice his frustration at John's hovering, creating an unspoken understanding.<p>

The two of them drift about the rooms back home, silently, as if ghosts, as if John had never gotten home in time. Every creak of the stairs and murmur of the television in the lower room is a funeral march, and they are the lonely pall bearers to a casket full of nothing if not naïve faith.

But for now, really, things are okay.

Sherlock does his experiments in the kitchen while John stands at the other side of the counter and tells him of everything that he already knows about the trip. It's therapy, it passes the time, and that's all that they can ask for; for time to elapse so that they can move on from this once again and try not to look back.

"Why don't you ever just talk to me about it?" John finishes his stories with an exasperated question, leaning on the counter whilst trying to elicit some sort of grand reaction from his friend.

As it happens, it's all in vain. Sherlock says nothing, and John can almost see his pain, his regret and that familiar loneliness with which John is so at home with. And John, as a doctor, as a flatmate, as a _friend_, simply will not stand for it. _Cannot_.

Sherlock, strangely, doesn't object when John spends the night in his room. They both sleep better for the first time in months.

* * *

><p>003:<p>

John is cleaning up one of Sherlock's experiments when the next time comes; some god-awful substance is littered all over the floor of the kitchen and has scattered halfway into the room adjacent.

A this time, Sherlock has been clean of tobacco and all other substances for eight weeks, and John wouldn't mind vacuuming so much if the wound in his shoulder would stop plaguing him.

He pushes forwards.

Perhaps the return of the pain can be attributed to the lack of casework or the slip into simple domesticity that he swore he would one day be a part of but _Lord, not like this_. Sherlock, meanwhile, is full of misplaced frustration with no decent outlet while doing surprisingly well in kicking several addictions.

Some days are good. Some days, not so much.

"Sherlock, is that you?"

Stomping on the stairs. The door opens and Sherlock walks in the flat covered in blood, for not the first time.

John isn't fazed; the art of casualty.

"Can you not trek any of that on the carpet?" He asks idly, busying himself with scrubbing the floors. Sherlock says nothing, but his silence speaks volumes.

_No bragging_? No talk of the Yard being simple-minded fools who don't deserve their jobs?

By the time John looks up, Sherlock is already halfway to his room, slamming the door as he reaches his destination. "Sherlock?"

No response. John sighs, putting his head in his hands for a few seconds to clear the spots from his vision. When he opens them once more, he sees that Sherlock has, in fact, trailed blood on the carpet.

* * *

><p>"He got away," Sherlock says as John eats dinner alone. He's clean now, has washed the filth off of his face and hands, although John can still see the remnants on bits of his clothes. "He got away," the detective continues, "And I chased him. I caught him, too. I started to hit him," Sherlock's voice grows quiet, "And didn't stop. I was angry, John, and it was completely irrational."<p>

John frowns, his concern evident, "And what happened?"

"Lestrade took me off the case. Sent me home – here, to," His face turns into a disgusted sort of scowl, "Clear my head."

Sherlock Holmes, since John has known him (Some months, a year, a lifetime) has only shown fear for one thing: his own mind. Specifically, his own mind _malfunctioning_, and the repercussions of that happening.

John sits Sherlock down next to him at the counter; Sherlock, the genius; Sherlock, not quite a Jack of all Trades but the king of his own; Sherlock, at a loss. John talks him through the frustration and the regret that the proud git will never admit to. He tells his friend that he needs to get some sleep, which has only happened about four times in the two weeks since Jim Moriarty had shown up in their lives.

Jim. Dear Jim.

At first, the chase was stimulating; Sherlock was off the walls with a laser sort of concentration, a strange sort of happiness which he could only express in his quiet, subdued way. However, now Sherlock's body, his transport, is suffering and John can see him becoming consumed by_something_, by the Game, by the challenge, by –

Jealousy?

"I don't need sleep, John. I've never needed sleep, nor any other of those ordinary luxuries with which you lot are so accustomed, and there's no reason that I should begin to need them now."

Sherlock Holmes is a creature – if not of monotony or a humble nature – of habit.

John finds this interesting about him, to say the least.

But the army doctor sees that look his eye, the despair shadowing his every action, however minute, and he decides then and there that he's not going to get away with it, not as long as John can prevent it.

The night wears on slowly.

Where are you going?" As John is typing (struggling to type) on his laptop while the evening news fills the silence in the flat, Sherlock grabs his coat rom his chair by the bookshelf and walks towards the door.

"Out."

"Tonight?"

"Yes."

"Right now"

"It would appear so."

John looks at him not all to sternly (still rather sternly) and flicks his eyes from Sherlock, stopped in place, to the door, to his laptop and back again.

He definitely won't be making _that_ mistake again.

John nods, finally, ignoring his flatmate's perplexed expression, "Alright, yeah, just give me a minute." He takes Sherlock's silent consent as a thank you, and they say nothing more about it as they take their leave.

* * *

><p>"Do you want a cigarette?"<p>

"Of course I do." John smiles, offers the pack over to him.

"Are you going to take one? Sherlock turns his head away from him, shoving his hands in his pockets and sighing heavily.

"Don't patronize me, John. Patronizing doesn't suit you."

"Then what does?"

"Shut up."

Things are going well.

* * *

><p>004:<p>

Irene Adler enters Sherlock's life like a hurricane, and when she does, John sees his friend in a completely different light.

As he recalls it, the few months with which she effectively destroys, rebuilds, and again destroys Sherlock Holmes are characterized by frenzied, unnecessary work ("Just leave her _behind_, Sherlock"), a number of dead bodies, and sirens.

John dreams of sirens.

More importantly, John dreams of accidents, of peril, of tragedy befalling his friend, all at the hands of this woman. _The_ woman.

It's obvious to John that Sherlock is affected by her in a way that he is not familiar with, and his hypothesis is only strengthened by his friend's awkward mannerisms and his eagerness to impress (an attribute that John had always thought was reserved for him but of course he's not bothered by that one bit). Sherlock zones out, John notices, actually _zones out_, without warning and without coming to any specific, brag-worthy conclusion upon finishing; something which John finds utterly disturbing above all else.

This woman confuses him, makes him more human than superhero, and John doesn't like her one bit.

He likes her even less when she's dead.

* * *

><p>It's not as if the party is going especially well, anyway. Sherlock has never been fond of parties, John knows this full well, although he thought that given the circumstances and the fact that it <em>is<em> John's Christmas present for the detective to behave, he would at least act differently than this (or at least less strange).

This is not quite the case.

Sherlock makes an effort, that's to be sure, and John is certainly appreciative. However, he still can't help but flush with a nasty secondhand embarrassment when Molly (poor dear) thinks that she can win the impossible man with a shiny bow and a card signed with a kiss, and when Sherlock (impossible) of course reacts to this in the completely wrong way. Matters aren't helped, of course, when Lestrade takes the drink halfway through the night and begins flirting with Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock gets fourteen more obscene sounding text messages that make everyone in the room uncomfortable to say the least.

John doesn't know why he tries, he really doesn't.

At the ring of the fifty-seventh text message, Sherlock's face changes, though, a curious expression, and John squints past his errant frustration to try and figure out the cause. Things do not look up when the detective then retreats to his room as if pulled by a string (which, all things considered, is not too far from what is actually happening). John waits exactly forty five seconds to follow his friend, surprised when he hears him talking on the phone. His voice is somewhat annoyed, somewhat subdued, and wholly reserved for the elder of the Holmes pair.

John strains to listen outside of the door.

"I think you're going to find Irene Adler tonight," He says, and John's stomach churns, if only slightly.

Pause. Mycroft speaking, then Sherlock.

"I think you're going to find her dead."

A few more seconds pass on the phone, and when Sherlock hangs up, John jumps into action, instinct kicking in. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Yes, fine, why wouldn't I be?" _(Why wouldn't I be Why would I Why Should I Why would I need you?)_

John sighs. "I dunno, it just seemed like…"

"I'm fine." John looks at his friend with concern, with a certain look (_that_ look) and Sherlock rolls his eyes before

"I promise."

The party ends early and as Sherlock is making his way out of the door, John following close by, the doctor is stopped by Lestrade with a kind hand on his shoulder. "John, why don't you stay back for this one?" He asks, and John shakes his head.

"I'm sorry, Greg, it's just that I'm getting the feeling that - "

"I know, and I am, too, trust me. That's why I'm asking you to stay here, just for me."

"Why?"

"Molly and I will be with him every second, and you really…you look like you could use a break." Lestrade's eyes are kind, and John feels his face heat up, not often used to showing weakness. "It is Christmas, after all."

John exhales, defeated, and nods as he slowly sinks into the nearby armchair. Lestrade smiles gratefully. "We'll take good care of him," He ensures, because John is never really at ease, per se, but especially not now, "So you should just relax for a bit. Take a break from all of this."

"Yeah," the doctor replies. A pause, then, followed by a soft-spoken "Good luck."

A small salute before taking leave into the wintry London night, "Merry Christmas, John."

* * *

><p>"Are you sure it's a danger night?" Mycroft is on the phone sporting a worried tone of voice, bordering on the edge of panic but not quite crossing the threshold as he hangs onto his last shred of hope.<p>

"No. But then that's the thing – I never am."

Sherlock takes the cigarette that night in the morgue, after Irene is pronounced dead, and after the detective must identify her from very much "not her face". This is something that John judges as a bit "not good", and thus gives himself full permission to worry considerably.

The doctor, having thrown away Lesstrade's optimistic suggestion of relaxation, sits thrumming with anxiety, the book that he had picked up going unread while Mrs. Hudson fixes him with concerned glances every now and then. He hangs up the phone.

"We need to check all the usual places," He says, and he starts to get up, but Mrs. Hudson pushes him right back down.

"Let me," She says, and the look in her eye is enough to shut him up.

He sits back, tries to open the book yet again.

Waiting is the hardest part.

* * *

><p>Sherlock walks in the flat, ten to one in the morning, and surveys his surroundings in the doorway with a severe expression.<p>

"I hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time," is all he says, and he stalks toward his room. John and Mrs. Hudson change exasperated expressions before she bids him a quiet farewell and retreats downstairs; the soldier, not so much off-duty, remains for the rest of night as if on guard.

Merry Christmas, John Watson, and a happy new year.

* * *

><p>005:<p>

Soon enough, it becomes difficult to tell which nights are to be treated as normal and which nights to be wary of, even fear. Jim Moriarty drifts in and out of their lives as if a menacing tide, sometimes roaring and stifling and sometimes subtle, only an impression of evil; and as he undulates back and forth, pulling the two of them along by a scarlet thread, the world of 221B grows a shade darker with each repetition.

For Sherlock, the lines are blurred between days, nights, and all the different crime scenes that all the demons in England are leaving behind for him to clear up; meanwhile, the King of them all stands by to conduct his web, carefully unraveling the detective in the most devastating way possible.

All John can remember from after the Passing of the Storm is a text message that sends them straight into the eye of another one. _Come and play_.

He remembers it all in a blur; remembers the trial, remembers his meeting with Mycroft, remembers Moriarty haunting his dreams with such clarity that he sometimes believes that he's still locked inside of the whirlwind. Laughter accompanies the sirens this time around; deafening, terrible.

The last danger night that John recollects is just that – the last, although, not in the way that he would have liked.

It happens after everything, and when the good doctor least expects it. After the arrest, punching a policeman in the face, the handcuffs, the assassins. It comes after meeting Richard Brook and walking the battlefield side by side with the most wanted man in England, _that's_ when it happens.

"It's Mrs. Hudson, she's been shot." The clue, John realizes after the fact, should have been in the way that Sherlock did nothing. However, he doesn't take the clue then; John is tired and blind and worried and off his guard, and Sherlock seems so calm – complacent, even – that the doctor could be sick right then.

_Tick, tock_.

They could each be dead at any minute.

_Tick, tock_.

Sherlock stays in the lab as John goes, bouncing a rubber ball.

"Alone is what protects me, "Sherlock says in a grand stroke of irony. John merely shakes his head.

"No. Friends are what protect people."

Sherlock Holmes, the black sheep, the man hopping from _I don't have any friends _to _I've only got one _and back to mister _Alone and mysterious is what bloody protects me…_

John ignores another text from Mycroft (git). Perhaps if he hadn't, he would have realized that by the time he returned to the lab with his tail between his legs, it would already be too late.

In the last moments of Sherlock's life, he cries. John doesn't. After the Fall, John doesn't – can't – feel anything except a concussion and a gaping hole in his chest where something used to be.

* * *

><p>006:<p>

The next danger night is John's, and it's Sherlock's turn now.

Sherlock wants to say a lot of things that day; he wants to tell John how much his friend has helped him and guided him and made him aware that life is worth living as long as it's with him, so he will make damn sure that that life is protected.

_I was so alone and I owe you so much_. Sherlock hears the words as they're uttered at his grave (nice headstone – thank you miss Hooper) and this confession echoes in his head almost on a continuous loop, and it damn well nearly makes the detective come out of hiding right then and there but –

Sherlock follows John home after he's released from the hospital on the Day Of (_I'm not in shock I'm fine Keep that bloody blanket away from me)._He watches his friend's every move, memorizing his mannerisms, his ticks, the reluctant fragility in his features as he wanders the flat as a restless apparition – alone once more.

Sherlock sees everything, sees the idea cross John's face, of only for a second. To Sherlock, though, it lasts a good eternity as he continues to analyze the good doctor carefully.

John's brow furrows; the lines form on his forehead.

_Why did he do it? Why wasn't I enough to keep him here?_

Sherlock shakes his head. John has no idea, and that's the thing that the detective will never forgive himself for.

John's eyes begin to water. Sherlock knows this because his friend's face turn red (never cries, not even when he wants to) and he begins to swallow several times; swallowing PainFearRejectionGuiltSadness, which, for all it's worth (nothing) has no physical manifestation. It stays there, stuck in his throat, blocking his airways (can't even scream what kind of man is he if he can't even do that) and Sherlock sits and watches, because he can do absolutely nothing but assure himself that it will all be worth it once everything is fixed – once _he_ fixes everything.

_Why won't he come back?_

John's face crumples, the stone finally beginning to yield to the cracks in its foundation. He balls his fists at his side, brings them up to cover his eyes, asks himself the unanswerable question:

_Why?_

Sherlock sees the walls crumble and asks himself the same damn thing.

The detective watches John the entire night; watches the cycle of thought, the _should I shouldn't I follow him to it I mean I followed him through everything else_ all the while thinking _don't you dare you bloody idiot_. Soon, John resigns himself to his room, limping, and gives way to sleep. Sherlock counts seven minutes by the rise and fall of his chest, making sure that he's asleep before turning of his surveillance and discarding the technology entirely.

It's time for him to leave. To fix it. Fix everything.

The last danger night, for John, is a miserable failure, but for Sherlock, it is a brilliant success.


End file.
